The Case of the Lost Detective
by teacups-and-murder
Summary: After Sherlock overdoses, John and Mary take him to the hospital. Sherlock disappears without a trace for four months. That is until he's rediscovered during a drugs bust and Lestrade has to give him devastating news about his older brother...
1. What have I done

I wrote this before the trailer dropped for season 4 today. In fact, I wrote this months ago, but didn't have any intentions of publishing it. However, with the release of the trailer, the idea behind this piece intrigued me even more. If you could let me know whether or not you'd like to see more from this story, please let me know. :) Thanks in advance.

* * *

Jim was a virus.

Jim Moriarty was a virus that crept its way through Sherlock's mind and corrupted every piece of data it came in contact with.

It corrupted and destroyed until Sherlock was left holding the needle and pushing sweet relief into his veins.

It was true that Sherlock had drugged himself up before arriving at the airport. He was confident in his skills of hiding his impairment from John and Mary. They'd never know. Mycroft would know, but he knew his brother wouldn't say anything. Sherlock was going to be on a plane for several hours. It would give him plenty of time to sober up.

Except that wasn't what happened.

He'd had a temporary break from reality when he'd received the news that Moriarty was back. He realized that now. It was a side effect of cocaine that he was familiar with. But breaking the news to John and to Mary that Sherlock was still an addict was by far the worst part of that day. After Sherlock had managed to get his footing and left the plane, he'd gotten into the car that had driven John and Mary here. He'd passed out again once he was inside, not even remembering John and Mary entering the vehicle.

He'd woken up in hospital, John sleeping on a sofa in the private room.

Sherlock had managed to slip out without waking John. He left a note that simply read: Sorry. SH

Sherlock had been bouncing from drug den to drug den ever since. Every time he shot up was an attempt to purge the virus from his system. Anything to try and get the virus out of his head. Anything to get his thoughts back to normal.

So far, Sherlock had been successful in hiding from Mycroft or the Yard or whoever else was looking for him. He doubted John was. Mary's due date was approaching. John would be monitoring Mary, making sure she stayed comfortable. He wouldn't be out looking for him.

It had been four months since Moriarty's face had appeared on every screen in the country when Sherlock was lying on a sofa in a dark basement. He'd just shot up and was simply staring at the ceiling. He was thinking. Trying to find every instance of the virus that was infecting him and throwing it out. It was a process he had gone through several times before… more than several in fact, but never seemed to work. He didn't know how else he was supposed to get rid of the man from his mind. If Jim really was back, he had to get rid of this virus in order to think properly. In order to play the game correctly so that he'd be able to get to the criminal mastermind.

Sherlock's eyes shot open as he heard the front door upstairs slam open and immediate shouts of warning from the police echo through the halls. His hands immediately went to cover his face. He cussed as he tried to get himself off the sofa. How had he managed to get caught in a drugs bust? He had just managed to pick himself up off the floor after rolling off the sofa when he felt himself being pinned down against the ground, hands cuffed behind his back.

When Sherlock was pulled to his feet he found himself face to face with none other than Sally Donovan. Sherlock was expecting a biting insult from her but she merely reached for the radio clipped to her jacket. "Get a hold of DI Lestrade. Tell him we found Holmes." She dropped the radio and fixed Sherlock with a stern look, but something was off.

"What is it?" Sherlock croaked, only standing because the officer who had cuffed him was holding him up.

"That's not my place to tell you." Sally answered before walking off.

Sherlock was escorted outside by the officer and placed inside of a police car. He leaned his head against the car window and waited…

Sherlock didn't remember passing out, but it felt as though two seconds later he was being pulled out of the police car and taken to processing. He passed through processing in a blur, his mind trying to figure out what could possibly be wrong. The only thing he remembered clearly was his mug shot being taken. He was sure the picture of him with long, greasy, matted hair; stubble covered face; and sunken cheeks would be plastered across the tabloids the next day.

Sherlock sat in his holding cell, knee bouncing up and down with anticipation. Mycroft would post his bail. He had to.

Hours passed. No bail was posted.

Eventually, someone stood in front of Sherlock's cell. Sherlock raised his head and found Lestrade standing in front of him. Sherlock hurriedly got to his feet. "What's happened?" he asked, hands gripping the bars of the cell.

Lestrade looked angry, but his expression soon faded to sympathy. "As much as I'd like to yell at you for being a bloody idiot…" He sighed and looked down at his feet, running a hand through his hair. "It's your brother."

Sherlock's brow furrowed together. "M-Mycroft?" escaped his lips before he could stop it.

Lestrade nodded. "I'm really sorry, Sherlock. Your brother took a heart attack two days ago. He's in hospital. Doctors say he has heart disease. They had to open him up and put some stents in."

Sherlock could see Lestrade's lips moving, but all he could hear was a ringing in his ears. He let go of the bars, taking a few steps back. Lestrade looked incredibly sympathetic, pitying almost. But Sherlock couldn't hear a word he was saying.

"I need to see him." Sherlock whispered. He looked up to meet Lestrade's eyes. "Please. I need to see him."

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, but I can't just let you out. Your bail needs to be posted."

"Get a hold of Anthea. Mycroft's assistant. She can sort it out… Please." Sherlock pleaded.

Lestrade shifted his weight uncomfortably before he nodded. "I'll see what I can do."

"Thank you." Sherlock said before collapsing back onto the floor, leaning back against the wall.

"There's something else you should know." Lestrade said, still standing at the cell, though he'd taken a step back. "Mary had her baby. Healthy little girl. Named her Ella Scott." Greg gave a small smile in Sherlock's direction before leaving.

Sherlock's hands went up to knot themselves in his hair. Without realizing, he began to cry.

What had he done?


	2. Don't die while I'm asleep

Wow, I was so blown away by all the encouragement I got from you all! :) Thanks for all the reviews and follows! Tackling the challenge of Sherlock and Mycroft's relationship is going to be hard, but hopefully I do it justice. If you guys have any tips or suggestions, let me know.

* * *

Sherlock didn't sleep at all that night. He sat in his cell with his knees pulled up to his chest, arms wrapped around his legs, and his head buried so no one could see his face.

He cried until there were no tears left. Until all he felt was an aching emptiness inside of him. He wished the emptiness would simply swallow him whole. That way he wouldn't live through what he knew was to come.

Mycroft had always had bad cholesterol. It was why Sherlock teased him about his weight and why Mycroft obsessed over his diet and exercise. But Sherlock had never imagined his bad cholesterol would come into play this soon…

 _"Two years, eleven months, four days."_

 _"It's getting rather exciting now. Tick, tock, tick tock…"_

A chill ran down Sherlock's spine. Had he subconsciously deduced that Mycroft's condition was getting worse? Did his brother only have two years, seven months, and four days to live now? No. No. It had been a break from reality. That couldn't be the case. Mycroft wasn't dying. Not anytime soon.

His thoughts then went to John…

He was positive the army doctor was going to kill him the next time he saw him. First, Sherlock had disappeared on John from the hospital. That was probably close to unforgivable in John's book. Then, Sherlock had been using consistently for the past four months, barely coming up for air between doses of cocaine. Sherlock had lost about two stone. Maybe close to two and a half. His face looked sunken in, skin stretched too thin over his prominent bone structure. Dark purple bruises under his eyes were the only color to his skin. He hadn't slept properly at all during his four-month drug excursion.

And finally, there was the fact that he'd missed the birth of John's daughter.

Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall, letting out a long, shaky breath. He suddenly wished he could take those four months back. But he knew that wasn't logical. He could feel the sweats from the withdrawals beginning to set in. It wouldn't be long before the body aches and pains began. He knew they would be intense. He'd probably develop a fever as well, hallucinate a few times, but he couldn't think about that now. He needed to get out of here and see Mycroft. That was his first priority.

Sherlock had been in his holding cell for eighteen hours when Lestrade finally came back. He was in a different set of clothes. Obviously he'd actually gone home for the night. "Your bail's been posted. Anthea's here to get you. But let's get you washed up first, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, getting to his feet as Lestrade unlocked the cell and let him out.

Lestrade wordlessly guided Sherlock to the men's locker room. Sherlock didn't speak either. It wasn't until they were inside and the door was closed that Lestrade said anything. "I got some fresh clothes for you. Not what you usually wear, but they're clean." Lestrade picked up a neatly folded bundle of clothes. It was a pair of sweat pants with a thin shirt and a pullover hoodie. Sherlock took them with a nod of thanks. "There's some things in the shower so you can clean yourself up as well. I'll be here when you're done."

Sherlock moved towards the shower. "Thank you." He said quietly.

"Welcome." Lestrade replied, taking a seat on one of the benches.

Sherlock took the hottest shower he could manage. It was a relief to be out of his grimy clothes. He felt as though he scrubbed his skin within an inch of its life. He washed his hair harshly as well. When his thick curls were wet, they hung past his shoulders. Afterwards he dried and dressed in the clothes Lestrade had supplied him with. He walked back out into the locker room and simply threw his grimy clothes in the trash.

Lestrade looked up at Sherlock with a small smile. "You look a bit better already." He stood and motioned to the sink. I have some things if you'd like to shave. And I'm not a barber, but I could clip your hair as well." Sherlock and Lestrade shared a dark history. This wasn't the first time Lestrade had helped him clean up after a relapse.

Sherlock gave a small nod. "I'd like that."

After Sherlock carefully shaved, Greg cut Sherlock's long hair to the best of his ability. It didn't look half bad. "There." Greg said with a warm smile. "Just gotta get some meat on your bones and you'll be back to normal, yeah?"

Sherlock tried for a smile and gave Lestrade a nod.

Lestrade gave Sherlock's shoulder a squeeze before leading Sherlock up to the lobby. "I paid Mycroft a visit. He's alright… mostly just sleeping a lot. Worried about governments falling apart without him."

A genuine smile twisted the corner of Sherlock's lips upward. "Of course."

Soon, Lestrade and Sherlock were in the waiting room. Anthea was waiting there for Sherlock. Lestrade gave Sherlock's shoulder another squeeze. "Stay in touch, mate." He said quietly.

Sherlock knew what that really meant. 'Don't disappear without a trace again. And for god's sake please don't relapse again.' Sherlock nodded. "I'll try."

Lestrade smiled and nodded. "You'll probably see me around."

Sherlock nodded and then walked over to Anthea. Anthea gave him a worried smile before reaching into her purse. "This is yours." She said before handing Sherlock his mobile. "Mycroft is at the Royal Brompton. It has the best heart center in London. He's under the best care."

Sherlock gave a small nod. He'd never doubted Mycroft would have the best care.

Anthea led Sherlock out to one of Mycroft's cars. Once they were both inside the driver began their route to the hospital. The car ride was silent. The trip took double the time due to rush hour traffic, however Sherlock was soon standing in front of the hospital. He followed Anthea as she led him up a lift and through a maze of hallways. She then stopped in front of the door to a private room.

"He's in here. I'm going home for the night, so you two will have some privacy." Anthea offered with a small smile.

Sherlock nodded and whispered a thank you.

Sherlock stood outside the door until Anthea was out of sight. He waited a moment more and held his breath before he pushed the door open…

Sherlock swallowed thickly as he saw his older brother. He looked nothing like himself, dressed in a hospital gown and covered in the thin hospital sheets. His skin was sickly white, something Sherlock had never seen on his brother before. Sherlock had always been the sick one. Not Mycroft.

"You don't have to hover." Mycroft said in a low voice before opening his eyes.

Sherlock took a few steps forward, rubbing at his arm and staring at his toes. He swallowed again, not knowing what to say. A few moments passed…

"You look horrible." Mycroft said bluntly.

"You should see yourself." Sherlock replied before looking up from the floor. A look passed between the Holmes boys… Something that outsiders may view as nothing, but to them was the equivalent of sharing a laugh. But any humor from the moment quickly passed. Sherlock carefully sat in the chair next to Mycroft's bed, moving it a bit closer.

"Have the withdrawals started yet?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock gave a small nod.

"Mm." Mycroft hummed. He studied Sherlock for a moment. "Have you slept?"

Sherlock sighed, "Mycroft, please." After Mycroft's gaze didn't leave him Sherlock gave another sigh. "No, I haven't slept. But I'm fine."

"Eaten?"

"No."

The two brothers didn't say anything after that. Sherlock eventually found the remote for the television and flicked it on to a news station. Something to keep Mycroft's mind occupied.

An hour passed before Mycroft spoke in a voice that would have been a yell if he weren't so ill. "Sherlock, you can't keep doing this to yourself. I'm not always going to be arou-"

"Stop."

"…I'm not always going to be around to help you." The repeated words were spoken slowly to drive his point home.

Sherlock looked over to find his brother's eyes locked on him. Sherlock took a deep breath in through his nose, his voice dangerously low. "For God's sake, Mycroft, you have had a massive heart attack and could very well have died. Can we please ignore my problems for once and focus on yours."

The room fell silent once more, the noise of the television falling on deaf ears.

"The doctors have assured me that I will make a full recovery with the correct amount of physical therapy." Mycroft spoke, turning his gaze away from his younger brother.

Sherlock stared at the wall as well. "What about long term?"

"Medication. Diet. Exercise." Mycroft stated simply. "Nothing more that can be done."

The brothers always knew this would be a problem eventually with their family history, but Sherlock had never imagined it would come up so soon.

Sherlock decided that was enough information from Mycroft for now. He'd steal the man's chart later when Mycroft was asleep and read it for himself. That would give him all the information he needed. Sherlock turned his gaze to the telly, but didn't actually watch.

It was only when a nurse came in a few hours later to check Mycroft's vitals that Sherlock realized he'd dozed off shortly after the end of their conversation. Sherlock suppressed a groan as he realized the body aches from the withdrawals were in full swing. He felt his clothes sticking to him uncomfortably as well from the cold sweats. He watched the nurse do her work and caught Mycroft giving him an anxious look. His brother then looked over at the nurse. "Would you mind bringing in a pillow and blanket for my brother?"

"That's really not necessary-"

"Of course I can." The nurse offered with a smile. "I'll be back shortly." As soon as the door closed Sherlock looked over accusingly at Mycroft.

"If you're going to stick around you may as well be comfortable." Mycroft said matter-of-factly.

Sherlock huffed and rearranged himself into a more comfortable position on the large chair at Mycroft's side. "I am perfectly comfortable." He grumbled. The nurse returned with the requested items and Sherlock took them. The pillow did help his neck tremendously, but he wouldn't admit that to Mycroft.

"Don't die while I'm asleep." Sherlock muttered, eyes already closed.

Sherlock swore he heard a chuckle before consciousness was quickly snatched away from him.

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't really know if the Royal Brompton Hospital is the best cardiac center in London, but that's what Google told me. Google never lies, right? ;)


	3. Too big a heart

Hello again, everyone! :) I'm so glad you all enjoyed the last chapter. We're switching things up a bit with this one, going to Dr. John Watson's point of view. I hope you enjoy!

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John Watson was a busy man, especially now that there was a baby in the house.

Mary had gone into labor exactly twelve days before her due date. They were in no way, shape, or form prepared for the sixteen hours of pain and agony that would follow, only to end in an emergency C-section. But Mary was alright and more importantly their beautiful daughter was healthy as could be.

Ella Scott Watson.

Ella for Mary's mother that she'd never see again.

Scott for Sherlock.

John felt anger boil up in him as he walked through the convenience store. John had searched every back alley for that man the moment he'd disappeared. He'd gone to every single one of his bolt holes, including that horrible empty house that held so many bad memories for him, and Sherlock hadn't been at a single one. He tracked down people in Sherlock's homeless network, starting with Bill Wiggins, but no one had seen or heard from him.

John went to the drug house he'd found Sherlock in the first time every weekend to see if he would turn up there.

There was no sign of him.

He'd had to slow down on his search for Sherlock when Ella had been born, but that didn't mean he wasn't still looking.

John stopped as he reached the display of mobile phones. He'd had the misfortune of dropping his into a bath tub… In his defense, he had been awake all night with a screaming infant. He'd already gone three days without it and seeing he was going back to work soon; he knew it would become a necessity for him to have one again. Although he eyed up one of the fancier models, he settled for one that was more within his budget.

John pocketed the phone, not bothering to connect it with his old number just yet. He wasn't in a rush to talk to people yet. In fact, he'd been overwhelmed with how many people had tried talking to him since Mary had had the baby. He'd written up a blog post about it and hadn't stopped getting emails since.

It was as John was about to exit the store that he saw it.

A copy of _The Sun_ with Sherlock's face plastered across it.

John's heart skipped a beat at first. The man looked half dead. John didn't remember walking over and picking up the newspaper, it was as if the floor stretched and then shrank in order to bring him closer to the newsstand.

The full-color picture was of a version of Sherlock John had never seen before. One was from the front and the other from the side. A mugshot. Sherlock's skin looked paper thin as though his cheekbones would simply poke through with the slightest movement. His hair was long and matted together, the usual curls starting to look more like dread locks. A thick scruff covered his chin, upper lip, and part of his cheeks.

But what bothered John most were his eyes.

His eyes looked haunted. The eyes that usually held mischief and curiosity were red rimmed and bloodshot. The shades of purple in the bags beneath them were almost black. He looked as though he hadn't slept in months.

The headline read, " **SHERLOCK HOLMES ARRESTED DURING DRUGS BUST.** "

John's sympathy was then gone, the red hot rage boiling up in him again. All that time, John had hoped and prayed, even, that Sherlock was off trying to solve the case of Moriarty's mysterious return. John probably would have punched him, told him he was an idiot for trying to solve this on his own, but John would have easily forgiven him. John had even feared for a time that Sherlock had been abducted and was off in some dark basement somewhere getting tortured or something. But no. Sherlock had been on a cocaine and morphine and god-knows-what-else binge this whole time. The list from the airplane flashed into his mind. If Sherlock had managed to take all those drugs at once, he couldn't imagine how much drugs he could have pushed through his system in four month's time. John's grip tightened on the newspaper, crumpling it in his hand.

He had to go see Mycroft.

John was so caught up in his thoughts that he left the store with the tabloid in his hand, forgetting to pay for it on his way out.

John managed to wave down a taxi as he pulled his mobile out of his pocket and began to fiddle with it. Once he slipped into the back seat and instructed the cabbie to take him to the hospital Mycroft was in, he pulled a slip of paper out of his pocket and completed the instructions so that his new mobile would connect with the number belonging to his now waterlogged and useless one.

As soon as his phone connected to his network countless notifications poured in from Lestrade.

 _Five (5) missed calls from DI Greg Lestrade._

 _Donovan found Sherlock in a drugs bust. Some drug den in Chelsea. –GL_

 _One (1) missed call from DI Greg Lestrade._

 _Donovan's gonna bring him in for booking. Did you want to see him? –GL_

 _He's going to have to stay here until his bail's been posted. Don't know who's going to do that, but I know it's definitely not going to be me. –GL_

 _John, you there? –GL_

 _Three (3) missed calls from DI Greg Lestrade._

 _One (1) voicemail from DI Greg Lestrade._

 _Call me when you get this, mate. I know you're busy with the baby and all. –GL_

John cussed quietly to himself as he scrolled through all the notifications. Of course on one of the three days he didn't have his phone would be the one day where Sherlock was found. It just caused his anger to rise even higher. He typed out a text to Lestrade: _Sorry, Greg, my mobile was out of commission. I'm on my way to see Mycroft to discuss Sherlock. JW_

He then also sent a lengthier text to Mary, explaining to her that Sherlock had been found and he was swinging by the hospital to chat with Mycroft.

The cab pulled up to the hospital and John quickly paid the cabbie before hopping out, shoving his mobile deep into his pocket. He squared his shoulders and straightened his coat as he stood in front of the hospital, mentally preparing what he was going to say to Mycroft. They couldn't bail Sherlock out. They just couldn't. Sherlock needed to spend some time in jail to learn that consequences came with his actions. Then they'd send him to a nice rehab center where he could dry out. Something nice and professional. John nodded to himself as he pressed the correct floor on the lift. The door closed and it began to make its journey up four floors.

That's what they had to do. It was the only way Sherlock was going to learn. Yes, it might be a bit cold to let him rot in jail for a bit and yes, rehab might not be the best option, but it was all about sending a message to Sherlock. If one acts like a child, you must treat them like a child. Yes, that was a good line. He'd have to say it sternly.

John gave a small wave to the nurses at the desk on Mycroft's floor. John reached Mycroft's door and took a deep breath in before pushing it open, ready to deliver the speech that he'd mentally prepared, the copy of The Sun still clutched in his hand.

But he stopped dead in his tracks as he saw Mycroft was not alone in his room.

Mycroft hurriedly put a finger to his lips.

John opened his mouth to speak, … closed it.

Sherlock was curled into the chair at Mycroft's side, a pillow supporting his head and draped in a large blanket. He was obviously deep asleep, soft snores leaving his slightly parted lips.

John swallowed and looked back at Mycroft, all anger immediately gone at the sight of his broken looking friend. "How long has he been here?" he asked in a low voice.

"Since yesterday." Mycroft replied in an equally quiet voice. "He's been asleep since about six in the evening, yesterday."

John glanced at his watch. It was nearly noon. He carefully walked to Sherlock's side, tossing the forgotten newspaper onto the foot of Mycroft's bed. John carefully gauged Sherlock's temperature by placing his wrist to the detective's forehead. He then took Sherlock's limp hand and took his pulse. "He's burning up." John informed Mycroft. "Heart beat is rapid as well."

Mycroft didn't get a chance to speak before Sherlock did.

"Молимо вас." He whispered. "Mолимо вас, mолимо вас, mолимо вас."

John's brow furrowed together in confusion. Sherlock's eyes were still closed, but they were moving quickly beneath his lids. He was dreaming. "What's he saying?" John asked, looking over his shoulder at Mycroft.

Mycroft only managed to hide some of his concern. "It's Serbian for 'please.'"

John took several steps back from his friend, putting his hands in his pockets. His eyes turned to the floor before he spoke. "I came here to tell you to put him in a rehab center after he got out of jail." Sherlock continued to whisper in Serbian as John and Mycroft had their conversation.

"I didn't bail him out." Mycroft said, repositioning himself on his bed. His gown slipped slightly and John saw the beginning of the incision where the doctor's had cracked open his chest. "My assistant did. She also brought him here. He hasn't been much trouble… but he is going through withdrawal, as you so keenly noticed already."

"They're going to get worse." John observed.

Mycroft nodded. "Mm yes, they are. I've helped him through them before but… I don't think I can this time." A look crossed Mycroft's face, but John couldn't interpret it.

The words left John's mouth before he had time to process them fully. "I'll look after him. I'll take him to my place. He can dry out on my sofa. Not here in a cramped chair."

Mycroft smiled knowingly. "I was hoping you'd say that, Doctor Watson."

"But I'll need medical equipment." John hurriedly added. "He'll need an IV, possibly some pain medication, but nothing too strong that will add or continue to his addiction."

"Make a list." Mycroft said, motioning towards a notepad on the table beside his bed. "It'll be at your house by tonight."

John stepped forward and took the notepad, quickly scribbling down everything that came to mind. As he scribbled he glanced up at Mycroft's own monitor. His vitals hadn't exactly improved much either. "Have your doctors said when you'll get released?" he asked quietly, continuing to write.

Mycroft examined John for a moment before answering, "Two days from now as long as nothing else happens."

John nodded. "I'm sure they're doing everything they can." Mycroft simply hummed in response. John gave Mycroft the notepad. "Right, well… I guess I'll take him home with me then."

"Good luck."

John turned to face Sherlock and gave a heavy sigh. He cursed his damn heart for being too big.

* * *

Disclaimer: I don't know Serbian, but that's what Google Translate said 'please' was. :)


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